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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305768">Love in The Mundane</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSpectre/pseuds/SunflowerSpectre'>SunflowerSpectre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Works of 2020 [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Wedding Fluff, a bit of angst, descriptions of the aftermath of a battle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:34:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,075</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305768</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSpectre/pseuds/SunflowerSpectre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Eliwood and Fiora confess their love before continuing their life together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eliwood/Fiora (Fire Emblem)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Works of 2020 [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611430</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a gifted piece</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A heavy weight grows in Fiora’s chest, each step is harder to take than the last as she drags herself through the aftermath of war, through a beaten and used battlefield that smells of blood and conflict. It’s all she can smell, only she can really feel. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Death. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It had crept in slowly before the battle had begun, like a warning urging them of what is to come, but like a fool they had ignored its heed and charged. Then Death had swept over them like a dark angel, sweeping lives away like they are nothing, sucking the life out of comrades and enemies, grasping them in a way that she wouldn’t know to make it lose its grip. Now it lingers still, settling over them in a thick air that strains her lungs. With every soul that leaves a struggling body, every light that dims, the air grows thicker.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is a Pegasus Knight and Death is every knight’s wings, spinning this air into the world like a horrific nightmare,  so she has come to know it well. This air is familiar - it is like greeting the master who has taught you how to kill, how to drive a knife into a heart without feeling for their life. Because of death, because of limited choices and the need to have money, she knows the way that life drains from someone’s eyes. What the last breath sounds like when it slips through cold lips. How blood pools around a wound. How to get the stains out of light clothes. She knows which points to hit with her weapon if she wants her enemy to die - and she knows what to do if she wants them to die </span>
  <em>
    <span>quickly</span>
  </em>
  <span> or slowly drift away with screams. She usually prefers the former, but the later has to be used when she has to draw information out from less than trustworthy people.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>She breathes in deeply and knows the smell of rot and dead flesh. The faint hint of medicine, burning herbs and blood soaked bandages. The metallic taste of burned armor.  She knows too much, she thinks sometimes, and yet she doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Death is not her friend. Death is a shadow that she’s hid in, a darkness that brushes at her skin, a monster that she tends to. It is many things, but it is not a friend. Death had nearly stolen the life of her sister, Florina, and had run its cold fingers through her pride. It is not a friend now as she watches bodies of people she used to know being carried off. Young faces with the color drained from their skin and hair soaked by their blood. Weak hands that reach for her when she passes, begging her to end their life now in mercy - or they plead for her to heal them, help them. She helps the ones that she can, even the ones that don’t want it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels torn between crying and screaming. She wonders if she cries if it will fade into her sweat in a way that the others won’t see it. She wants to let out the dreadful howl that is building in her lungs, but she swallows it down as she leans her weight onto her weapon and continues to walk with her head high. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She tries to ignore the blood of her own wounds, but that gets harder with each step that she takes. Pain shoots down her side like lightning, tingling against her skin. She can feel the familiar warmth and wetness of blood soaking beneath her armor and a few joints of her bones creak more than they should when she moves. Where her armor is dented is where she thinks that it’s the worst - the metal bends to her skin unnaturally and it is where she feels the most pain, but she doesn’t feel the blood yet. But she knows that she is lucky - that her armor is why she is still able to walk through the aftermath of the battlefield instead of being carted off by a mortuary trolley. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her breath catches when she finally sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, relief flooding over her that he still stands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliwood. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It almost makes her knees too weak to stand, knowing that he is still there to lead his people through this. Seeing him makes the reality set in as she realizes that it really is over. She can see the tufts of his auburn hair, the power in his stance as he advises the people around him. His head is held high, proud and strong, but his eyes are humble, his voice even and firm, laced with concern and understanding. His armor catches in the light, making him shine like a beacon, gleaming like the rising sun itself after a dark night. He looks every bit the ruler that he will - and should - be. It is a scene that she will always remember - she will hold it close to her heart. She can see this being the scene that gets carefully recreated on his tapestries in a cold castle. This is the scene that gets beautifully drawn in everyone’s mind when the bards string songs about his glory and strength. The people will call him Marquess. A Duke. But to her, he is a king. Her king.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She basks in his warmth and selfishly, she lets it breathe more life into her. She wonders if it makes his light dim any less when she steals the wisps of it that stray from him - a moon reflecting the sun. It lessens the weight in her heart, and makes her steps feel a bit lighter. She goes to him - her body moving on autopilot, ignoring the pain that shoots through her veins and the burn of her injured skin. But each step comes easily knowing that it makes her one step closer to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can see his eyes now - kind, honest eyes that beam with concern against a young face. He does not seem to be injured, at least not that she can tell, but his clothes and armor are stained so deeply from the wounds inflicted on their enemy that it will be hard to tell. Maybe a few small cuts here and there, but nothing major. But he could be like her for all she knows - trying his best to let others notice how injured he is. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No - not like her, he’s stronger. Better. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Against the odds, she smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fiora.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her name is a whispered relief on his lips as he spots her, his feet moving toward her to meet her. He takes her in his arms carefully, gently and she collapses into his grasp as the last bit of strength that she had in her muscles finally leaves her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He whispers his thanks to the higher power that she stands and grasps her tightly when he softly declares that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself should she have perished. She admits, with raspy breath, that she isn’t sure what she would have done if she didn’t see him standing there, alive, come the end of this either. But it is an alternative possibility that she refuses to think about too hard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll need you by my side,” Eliwood admits, “Should I have my coronation, where I would stand without the one I want as my duchess?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His love laces every word as he looks into her eyes, unflinching at the bruises that have swollen her face and the blood that stains her skin. It is one of the things that had first attracted her to him - he was the only one to never judge her, never command her or reprimand her for her misgivings. He had called her his equal and it is still a title that she grasps tightly with every bit of her being. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She had never been an equal before - her sisters were below her, or at least Florina thought that Fiora saw herself as above them and therefore had placed herself beneath her. Their parents were above all of them and their masters when they apprenticed were so beyond them that they couldn’t hope to grasp just one foot beneath them. Her buyers - clients - were above her. Or at least they always acted like they were and she saw them as her source of income. Her enemies are always beneath her blade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No one - not even any of her party members - had stood beside her before. Grasped her hand and guarded her blind spots, protected her back from attacks and betrayal while she guarded his. Invited her to the fire and shared stories with her like they were old friends. Shared secrets like they were lovers. Kissed her like she was his world. Held her like he would never want to let her go unless she had asked him to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t want him to let go. As long as his arms would be open, she would accept them. As long as she was greeted with kind words and open palms that helped her back up when she fell, she would be there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“My love.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood whispers to her like their love is a secret that others didn’t deserve to know and presses a quick fleeting kiss to her temple.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It takes a week - two at most - for them to decide on their wedding plans. They’re both reasonable adults that understand that their wedding will not be well-received by everyone. They know the risks involved in binding themselves together like this, yet neither of them ever think for a second of calling it off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The conversation of how to go about getting wed flows with ease as they agree on something small, secretive. Something that won’t draw too much attention and will let them have the peace that they deserve after surviving such a loud battle. Their decision is to do something simple and humble. A small celebration with their closest friends and family tucked away in the hillside that Fiora suspects that they will even move to after his coronation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she was a little girl, back when she still had stars in her eyes and dreamed of sweeping romances, she would have never expected her wedding to be this quiet. Yet as the day starts to loom closer, it is more than she ever dreamed of. But she wishes that when she was a little girl that someone would have told her that weddings will leave butterflies in your gut and that until you say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I Do </span>
  </em>
  <span>you will spend your days solving problems of what can go wrong and that the lingering fear of it not coming true because of something bad will cast a shadow in your chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So with trembling hands, she writes out the invitation letters with bated breath. She makes each one personal and honest, singing high praises of her friendship with each one of them and how she wishes to spend her special day in their company. She only writes to her own personal friends, knowing Eliwood will do the same with his own. But when it comes time to write to her sisters, she begins to struggle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Florina is the easiest one to write to. Fiora struggles to find the right words and has to hold herself back from coming on too strongly, but she is eventually able to write a decent letter asking her sister to attend the wedding. That she would be thrilled to have her company and how much her heart longs to see her. That she </span>
  <em>
    <span>misses</span>
  </em>
  <span> her family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Farina’s invitation, however, is harder to write. She throws away parchment after parchment, scratching out words and ruining her ink pen in the process. She debates with herself over whether or not she should include a long-written apology or draw out her sorrow over their shared grief and frustration. Should she ignore their squabbles and invite her as if they left on the best of terms? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She settles for something brief - simple and concise. Something that focuses more on her and her relationship with Eliwood with brief mention of how she misses her sister’s company, but that her heart would soar if they could put away their differences to celebrate such a great occasion. In the end, it is something that she is happy with and something that she hopes works.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you finally finish writing the invitation for your sister, love,” Eliwood gently asks, his voice soft and his eyes shining with concern as he glances over her shoulder at the parchment in front of her. His eyes scan over her wording before he presses a simple kiss to her with a smile.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think that you did a lovely job, I am positive that she will accept your peace offering.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora’s smile is frail and uncertain, “At least one of us is so positive about her reply. To be honest, I think we will be lucky if we so much as get a letter declining the invitation. Did you finish yours?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood’s smile stretches, beaming brightly as he begins to tell her how fast Mark and Hector responded to his invitations, that they would be happy to attend. That they both wrote their praises and congratulations, and spoke of how thrilled they were for them. The idea makes Fiora smile, her heart warming as doubts of her sister get pushed into the back of her mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sits back in her chair, fondly listening to him. She enjoys the energy of the movement of his hands and body as he speaks, each expression on his face is strong and full of emotion. Around her, in private, he is easy to read, his expressions and words honest. Everything is straightforward from him, with no hidden objective. He is an open book.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is a contrary to all that Fiora knows and she loves the idea of having that contrary in her life, feeling fuzzy knowing that she needs that in her life and in her heart. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She almost feels like she could throw up, not having the appetite to eat anything throughout the day as her stomach tosses and turns. While Eliwood does as much as he can to comfort her before they part to get ready, she still feels her chest tighten within her corset as laces get tied and hair gets styled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It all leaves standing in front of a worn mirror adorned in a beautiful dress with a surreal sensation. Like it is all a dream- as if she is waiting for the wake up call, the bad news, but it never comes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She glances to the only other two people in the room. Both of her sisters, thankfully, are present and look over her with approval and praise. Despite the way that Farina’s arms are crossed tightly against her chest and the smile on her lips is thinly pressed, Fiora can spot the pride in her eyes and that’s enough to give her hope. Florina, however, openly gushes over her gown and spews words of encouragement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I cannot believe that you are getting wed,” Florina’s voice is laced with excitement and love, a deep flush on her cheeks that makes Fiora smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose that makes two of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t comment on Farina’s silence, her lack of encouragement. Her presence is enough to give Fiora strength in this moment, enough to push her forward and believe that come some day soon, they can put behind their bad blood to begin something new. To become sisters again. Farina simply accepting the invitation is a good first step, Fiora believes, a step that must have been hard to take.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A knock on the door draws their attention. Each of them reacting in a way that they were trained to, their bodies taught and ready for an enemy to plow through. But when the door slowly creaked open, it was not an enemy but a friend.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark is avoiding his eyes, covering them with a hand to avoid catching anyone indecent and only opening the door just enough for him to poke through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Excuse the interruption,” Mark politely apologies, “But we are all ready to begin if you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Fiora takes one last fleeting glance at herself in the mirror; she looks beautiful, if she can admit that. Better than she has before, she knows, and it is a large improvement from worn armor and blood stains. Her hair is clean and brushed, styled well by her Florina. The dress is modest, but makes her feel like a noble with its quality and fit. Her eyes seem brighter and her cheeks are flush with light color. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She takes a deep breath and turns toward the door with a smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I am ready.”</span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora can’t even hear any of the bards, all that rings in her ears is her own heart beating wildly as she takes one step after the other to join Eliwood. She’s not sure if she’s crying, everything feels so numb - like it’s so much to process at the same time - but she wouldn’t be surprised if she were. Eliwood looks close to tears himself, his eyes glistening as he looks to her with a bright smile that she returns with love. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She is not a shy person. She is strong, confident, and loyal to a fault, yet as she stands beside him, she feels small. Embarrassed. Shy and modest. It’s an unfamiliar, strange sensation, but a welcomed one that makes her heart feel warm as she looks at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The binding of their love is a short affair - it goes by fast. One moment she feels like she is going to drop through the floor with nerves, the next she is standing beside her to-be-husband and speaking vows of loyalty and love. Truth be told, she does not remember much; the words that she spoke are a blur. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She remembers how soft his lips were and how they tasted in such a brief, haste kiss that bonded them together. Before cheers erupted. She finally looks to their friends to see Hector and Mark cheering the loudest while Farina and Florina are more modest, but clapping along with delight. She even spots Farina’s smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She decides that she can get used to this - this feeling of being surrounded by love and friendship that takes her away from harsh reality and past demons.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Fiora feels like she’s more nervous than her husband; he does not show any outward signs that he is nervous of his coronation, a smile stretched out toward her with his hand as he sings her praises. She accepts his hand as he brings her with him, a hand tight on her waist to hold her close. The hooded look that he sends the ones that stare does not go unnoticed by her; she also notices the buzz that their arrival creates, the harsh whispers and the curt remarks and insults that are said behind her back like cowards. She almost wishes that they had the gall to say it to her face; only so she can grin with sharp teeth as she chews them and spits them out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it all only serves as a reminder that despite Eliwood’s love and presence beside her, she is not welcome in the halls. As if she is unfit to be Eliwood’s wife, that he deserved better than her, prettier than her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>richer</span>
  </em>
  <span> than her - that he deserves a timid wife whose hands are delicate and clean of blood, who is more interested in sewing needles and fitting gowns other than swinging swords.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They all make  it very clear that they all think the same thing; that she does not even deserve to be in their presence. That she does not belong here in castle walls among the nobles and purebred blood; not even to her own husband’s coronation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their eyes are harsh and critical; unfriendly, snobbish. Some are afraid of her, avoiding her like death itself with wide eyes and stumbling steps. She does not blame them for being scared and a part of her relishes in the fact that some know that her toes are the last ones that anyone should be stepping on.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When her eyes meet a familiar face, the tension leaves her. She lights up with warmth and joy that she has yet one friend, aside from her husband, inside this chaos. She nudges Eliwood lightly to bring their friend to his attention. Mark shares their relief, the tension losing in his shoulders as he easily makes his way to them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good to see that you are here,” Mark jests lightly, “I was beginning to lose hope that you would even appear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood laughs, full-heartedly with his chest rumbling, “How could I miss my own coronation? I know that we are later to arrive than expected, but surely you didn’t have such little hope in us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark’s eyes are as earnest as his words are solemn, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Never.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora’s chest warms as she leans her head against her husband’s shoulder. She knows as well as Eliwood does that Mark is their greatest, closest friend; their closest ally. Despite their jesting, she knows that Eliwood’s trust and faith in Mark run deep, perhaps even deeper than her own faith in the man. It is one of the many things that made their decision easy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, my friend,” Eliwood’s voice is softer, honest and warm as he lets go of his wife to clasp a hand on Mark’s shoulder, briefly bringing him in for a friendly embrace, their chest bumping together before they part quickly. “We would never dream of otherwise, never question your loyalty to us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora nudges his side as she returns to him closely, looking up at him with understanding as she nods. He returns the gesture with a thin smile before turning back to Mark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-It is one of the reasons we have something important to ask of you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“-Of me?” Mark questions, his eyebrows rocketing; the request coming as a minor shock. Eliwood rarely asks for anything. He is a leader, he gives orders in the midst of battle that are gladly followed, but he only has ever asked for loyalty in return for friendship. Despite this, Mark knows that he would likely accept any request given to him by Eliwood - or Fiora.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fiora and I have spoken, but our decision was an easy one once your name was mentioned. We would like you to be our child’s godfather; should anything traffic occur, we trust you to take care of them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mark glances toward Fiora, whose cheeks are lightly dusted and eyes are softened. She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>glowing.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She is absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>glowing</span>
  </em>
  <span> - the type of lovely, glowing presence you only get when you are already with a child. It’s the expression of a new mother, of newfound love and excitement. She does not yet show, the dress she wears elegantly draping down a more toned figure that lacks the roundness of pregnancy; she must not be far along yet, but considering that even Mark has noticed the whispers that had been spreading throughout the halls, he supposes that it is for the best - at least for now - that she is not showing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It does not surprise him though; on the contrary, he knew that as soon as they were wed, that a child would soon follow. The request, however, isn’t expected. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grins wildly, excitement igniting a light in his eyes. He is thrilled for his friends, he knew that their love for one another runs deep, that a child would only deepen their love together. It is a blessing, a blessing he is glad to be a part of.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course, my fear friends,” Mark answers humbly, a fist to his heart in an unspoken promise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood gives a brief nod, their conversation starting to come to an end as Eliwood spots other nobles trying to catch his attention. Mark looks over his shoulder to spot the others trying to move things along. He’s smile is thin, but he gives Eliwood a clasp on the shoulder as he leaves and whispers a congratulations into Fiora’s ear as he departs.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora can see the way that Eliwood starts to wear down throughout the event; from greeting nobles that refuse to greet his own wife, to shaking the hands of men who turn their nose at them. He hides it well, the tension in his shoulders and the lack of luster in his eyes as he smiles, but she knows him too well. He can’t hide from her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries to give her reassuring smiles, smiles that are softly and hesitantly returned. But she knows that everything is starting to get to him, something that she feels guilty for. She can’t help but think that none of this would be so difficult if he married a noble woman - a girl that comes from a well family with a good reputation. Instead of - what is it that keeps getting whispered behind her back - </span>
  <em>
    <span>low life trash. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is nothing that she hasn’t heard before - in fact, she has heard much worse. She likes to think that it does not even bother her anymore, even when she knows deep down that that is far from the real truth. But what bothers her more is that Eliwood doesn’t deserve this. He does not deserve his own people, his own family, to be so crass with him. Not when he is such a great man, an even greater husband, and the best leader.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So she does what she can. She refuses to be meek, to lay down and expose her throat to these dogs that are going to eat her alive if she lets them. She holds her head high, her shoulders back, and meets the gazes that turn toward her evenly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood notices the change, cocking an eyebrow at her with an amused smile, and he gives her an approving once over at her surge in confidence; her confidence gives him strength to get through this and he, selfishly, basks in her confidence in hopes that it will give him more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the Lycian nobles protest her presence, when the words become more than whispers and it starts to escalate to the point that it makes their skin bristle, Eliwood holds her tight to him and refuses to let go. They face the threat together and look to each other with nothing but love, understanding and patience. When Fiora whispers an apology into his ear with guilty eyes, Eliwood refuses to accept it and embraces her so tight that the others around them begin to realize that no matter how hard they scratch at her and pull at him with their words, nothing will be tearing them apart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood showers her with affection as much as he can, in between the hand shaking and his speech, affection that is usually reserved for quiet halls and shaded bars. Kisses that last a second longer than they should with the crowd around them. Embraces that seem too intimate, as if he is claiming her for everyone to know. She returns it, hesitantly, by clutching to his arm like a possessive wife and biting back with smart words at the politicians that try to mock her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the end of the event, as nobles disperse and pay their respect to their new duke, they leave knowing that Fiora is there to stay as their duchess. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Finding a home is easier than Fiora imagined it would be; she supposes that it is considerably easier when your husband is an official duke, thus having the funds to find a suitable starter home is easier to obtain. The home itself, she admits, is perfect. A small cottage situated on the countryside hills; it’s quiet, peaceful, and getaway from the drama and action of the court.  The aged wood and small fix-ups that it needs only adds to its character. It gives the place a history, a past. As silly as it is,a part of her feels fulfilled by working out the cottage’s odds and ends. Repairing the past of it, in a way, helps her feel like she’s repairing her own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her belly is still small - smaller than she thought it would be by now, but she’s never been pregnant before nor has she known many women during their own pregnancy so there is much that she doesn’t really know. Her midwife - an older woman with wrinkles in the corner of her eyes that grow stronger and more prominent each time she smiles and has a soft, reassuring voice that Fiora knows will be helpful when the time comes - assures her that it’s nothing to worry about, that everyone is different. She also talks sometimes about how after the first child, every other child just ‘slides right out.’ But Fiora is too focused on having </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> child to think about having others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be honest, it’s not as if they have really talked about it either. She thinks that, like her, Eliwood is more focused on this pregnancy to be thinking about any future ones. But each time the midwife brings the question up, it gets her thinking if she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> want any more children. She supposes that she may, but when she thinks about the future - of bright sunny skies and warm nights with Eliwood at her side and a small child running through the grass, it feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>right.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A small quiet family, not filled with children yelling at each other or bickering sisters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she thinks of her own childhood, the protectiveness and bond that her sisters shared is (and always will be) nice, something that is different than the bond between a parent and child. But from all the good, she also remembers the fighting matches, the stolen and broken toys, and the complex relationship between them that’s developed as they got older, severing their bonds in ways that can’t always be fixed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you think it’s selfish to only want one child,” Fiora asks one night, turning on her side to face her husband, her breath hot against his neck as he stirs. Her voice is soft and he barely hears her question, but he does hear it - it takes him off guard for a moment, as he starts to force himself to wake up and adjust to the dark lighting of the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What makes you say that, love,” Eliwood presses gently, his eyes glistening in concern. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he looks at her, she continues, her eyes drifting away from him, “I don’t think I want a second child. I think one is enough for us - for me, but the more that I think about it, the more I believe myself to be selfish to rob our child of a sibling bond.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood presses his face into the crook of her neck as he drapes an arm around her, drawing her closer to him in comfort, “I don’t think you’re selfish, darling, quite the opposite, honestly. I think that you are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>unselfish </span>
  </em>
  <span>that you worry yourself about our future child to the point where it keeps you up at night, that you care so much that you only want the best for them while wondering if it really is the best.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora leans into him, her eyes closing as she takes a deep breath. When his hand rests on her stomach, she presses her hand on top of his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think,” Eliwood continues, his voice drowsy and slow, “That it’s best to take things as they come, don’t you? If we have more children, then we have more children. If we only have the one, then we shall spoil them as if we have many. But we are not fortune-tellers, we do not know what our future yields - except for one thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood presses a kiss to her temple, “- that you shall always be in it. And for as long as you are in my future, we shall face the unknown together.”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>As her stomach grows and it slowly starts to get harder to walk, turning into more of a wobble when she tries, Eliwood takes over all of the household chores. When she was still small and not far along, she had to push for him to share the hard work of fixing up the cottage. They had spent sunny days in the field working on building a fence before they bought cattle and other small animals to plow the yard. She had even managed to build the chicken coop by herself. Now, Eliwood is even refusing to let her do the smallest of things like letting her milk the cow or bring in the eggs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The midwife tells them that the baby shall come any day now and stays close by within the nearby village, should she be needed at a moment’s notice. But as the days tick by, Fiora’s worry grows; she can’t help herself as she worries about when the baby will come. It is a foreign, new type of fear that courses through her veins. It is nothing like the fear of death within a bloody battle or when you believe a comrade to be dead, or when you think to yourself how you are going to make it through another day with low supplies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is such a different type of fear. The fear of a new mother who worries for their child, the fear that makes her scared to strain herself or stray too far from her husband or their cottage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is the type of fear you get when your body isn’t your own anymore. When every curve feels forgein and your body feels heavier than you ever thought it could be. When your joints hurt when they didn’t even so much as ache when you ran through a torn village or when you hopped off a horse to sprint into a run. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fear of </span>
  <em>
    <span>will my child be okay? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Our baby will come when they’re ready, not a moment sooner nor a moment later.” Eliwood reassures her with a kiss to her temple, “It is just the way of things. All we can do is wait and make sure that we are ready for them.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The waiting is killing me,” Fiora admits, rolling her sore shoulders, “I feel like I am a bloated whale that is about to be beached.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood’s eyes twinkle in amusement as he glances her over; her large belly protrudes in a way that can not be missed. It is an unusual sight, when he remembers the muscular and lean warrior that fought beside him. But it is also a welcomed sight, a sight that he has gotten used and has </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her edges have softened, her body has changed in the natural way of life, but he still sees that fire in her eyes on the days when she makes it clear exactly what it going to happen, on the days where she argues with merchants and bargains like a thief, when she barks at wandering eyes, defends those smaller than herself, and when she tells a certain chicken that they </span>
  <em>
    <span>will stay there in their cage unless they fancy themselves to be dinner.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well you are a very beautiful whale, my lady,” he teases and lights up at the sound of her chiming laughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their child has the worst timing, but it is not as if they can simply tell their baby to wait when it decides that it is ready to welcome the world in the middle of a dark night. But the moment that Eliwood hears Fiora’s scream, he feels it in his bones that they are going to be welcoming their child whether they are ready for it or not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He helps prepare her in the ways that the midwife taught them, but the seasoned warrior fumbles with the details as he struggles to keep calm in the midst of such a moment. He is thankful when the midwife arrives, chiming that she could hear the baby coming all the way from in the village. Whether it is true or not, he is not sure and is not in the position to question it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gets all but pushed out of the room and has to swallow his tongue as he paces through their hallway. All he can do is wait - that is what he told her, isn’t it? That they just have to wait. But waiting gets harder when he can hear her screams through the door go deathly silent. His heart pounds in his chest as he holds his breath, the air knocked out of his lungs until he finally hears the cry of a newborn babe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The midwife opens the door and quietly ushers him in, but he barges through with the impatience of a new father to see Fiora laying calmly with blankets thrown over her and a bundle in her arms. Her hair is tousled and tangled, her face beat red with beads of sweat still dripping on her brow. But her eyes are soft, motherly, and full of love. He’s never seen her look so beautiful. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The calm before a storm - it is always such an odd, almost funny phrase to Fiora. She has never quite understood it; never fully grasping the concept of peace long enough to expect things to go wrong. During her time as a knight, there was never a calm nor peace. Every moment was always spent on edge, always sleeping with one eye open. Every war and battle was fierce, bloody. It was more than just a storm - it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>chaos. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She always thought that life was too short to worry about </span>
  <em>
    <span>when</span>
  </em>
  <span> something could </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> go wrong. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The closest that she’s gotten to understanding it is during her pregnancy - always worried for her future child. But now - now she </span>
  <em>
    <span>understands</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Here she is living a life she had never believed possible - </span>
  <em>
    <span>loving</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>being loved </span>
  </em>
  <span>in ways that she never thought could happen to her. Living a peaceful, quiet life away from the hatred and cold walls of the castle. Eliwood still disappears - sometimes for days, sometimes for as much as two weeks - to address business as the Duke, but they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can feel the tears bristling in the corners of her eyes and she wants to scream that it’s not fair, that she wants to stay in this world longer and see her son </span>
  <em>
    <span>grow.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Her baby son - her </span>
  <em>
    <span>still a few months old babe </span>
  </em>
  <span>son that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>small -</span>
  </em>
  <span> and she will never know who he grows up to be, if he will settle down and marry himself or die in a glorious battle or if he will choose to forgo battle entirely and take a different route from his parents. Will he be happy without her? Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eliwood</span>
  </em>
  <span> be happy without her? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood still presses to not give up, to not give in so easily, but she’s spent her entire life fighting and she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it - she is getting tired of fighting when her entire body feels like it is giving up on her whether she wants it to or not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctors still don’t know what is wrong with her - they can’t explain the coughing fits that last too long, the burning in her lungs. Her pupils are so large that Eliwood had to explain to the doctors that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she wasn’t experimenting with any mushrooms or other drugs. She didn’t even go into town enough to even </span>
  <em>
    <span>acquire</span>
  </em>
  <span> any drugs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She keeps trembling, no matter the blankets that have been piled on her and the last time that she tried to so much as take a drink of tea, her hands shook too much and her hand ached as she lost the strength in her arms too much to even do that one simple task. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She knows that she is dying; it can’t be helped. There have been many times where she </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> that she could die, a few times that she </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span> her chances of survival were low, but she crawled back up. But this time it is different. She can’t crawl back up out of the grave that is being dug for her when her arms are too weak to move. A part of her thinks that maybe it is the grave dirt that is filling her lungs that make it so hard to breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctors don’t think what she has is contagious - their </span>
  <em>
    <span>formal</span>
  </em>
  <span> diagnosis being some sort of poison that they can’t just pinpoint. Fiora thinks that maybe she picked the wrong herb in the garden or burned the wrong incense, but she also knows that Eliwood and Roy are both, thankfully, healthy as a horse and have yet to show any symptoms. Despite some arguing from the doctors, Eliwood brings in Roy to her daily and with tired, half-lidded eyes, she rocks her baby and mumbles soft assurances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>She wants to feed him - her breasts are swollen and sore from going so long without feeding her baby, but the doctors insist on not letting her feed her own child due to whatever it is that is poisoning her system. Fear that it could contaminate her milk and so they have resorted to a wet-nurse - a younger woman with a baby that is just about the same age as Roy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels tired as the world around her blurs, her grip on Roy is loose and she can’t bring herself to clutch him tighter. She can barely hear the scream of her husband as she closes her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t wake up.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood has had a lot of difficult days, enough for more than just one lifetime. He has faced hardships and battles that have left him bruised and bloody, but he has always had to stay strong. Always had to hide his weakness when his body felt like giving out beneath him. Could never let anyone see how hurt he was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Burying </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the most difficult day of his life and the most painful. He remembers when he had broken ribs and bones, bloody gashes on his body from an enemy’s sword, when his ears rang and his vision blurred but he kept fighting. But this still hurts more than any day in battle - a type of pain enveloping his chest in ways that is hard to describe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to stand there - stone faced and stiff, holding his son - </span>
  <em>
    <span>their son -</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his arms. He has to face his people - his family - his </span>
  <em>
    <span>mother</span>
  </em>
  <span> - and tell them that they have lost their duchess before he can even accept that he will be going back to an empty home. He has to keep swallowing the scream that builds in his throat, the curses that swirl in his chest, and the pain that boils deep in his veins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to tell the world when his mouth is dry and it is hard to speak so his words come out forced, stiff, and bordering on yelling as he pushes himself to speak of his wife’s virtues, her value, her love of life. He is gritting his teeth and through a locked jaw, he has to tell them that her death was an accident - a natural, odd occurrence that has plagued them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Florina and Hector stand with him when </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be. They place hands on his shoulders and whisper their condolences with bated breaths. He still holds Roy until the wet-nurse has to pry the baby out of his arms for a feeding and then, only then, behind closed doors and with friends, does he finally begin to cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I should have done something,” Eliwood confesses, “Something. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anything.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I should have set up better perimeters, better precautions, to keep my family safe and now look at what has happened due to my carelessness.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Florina and Hector share a pained, constricted look. Florina, especially, feels the pain in her  chest at the loss of her sister - but she remembers Eliwood’s announcement. The proclamation of natural death; something so mundane that it haunts her, never seeing that sort of death in the near future of Fiora, always imagining her going out fighting with a sword or dying with gray hair and many grandchildren swarming her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did she </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> pass, Eliwood,” Hector is the one who has the nerve to ask what Florina cannot. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Eliwood looks at them with glossy, red eyes that seem pained, haunted and his cheeks are stained from the stray tears that had built up so high that he could not contain them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Poison.” Eliwood states simply, his words stiff as his hands tremble. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Poison</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all things. The doctors had the nerve to plant the idea to her that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault. Some nonsense of picking the wrong herb for tea or mixing the wrong seasoning with the wrong meat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood’s anger starts to boil over the guilt, the grief, and it takes hold of him as he spits venomously, his body shaking at the idea of his wife - his </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart, beautiful wife - </span>
  </em>
  <span>dying with the idea that it was her fault. Dying believing that it can’t be helped, that she did everything she could, that it was an </span>
  <em>
    <span>accident.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fiora is - </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> - a smart woman,” Eliwood presses, his nerves tense and taunt, as if he is ready for someone to argue with him, ready for a fight, “She was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>knight.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She knew the flora and fiona as well as she knew her blade. The idea of her picking the wrong herb is </span>
  <em>
    <span>insulting.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tension built in the air, the underlying meaning of Eliwood’s words coming across clearly as they share a look of understanding, even if they don’t know what to do with this revelation. If someone was smart enough to sneak around - get close enough to pull this off - and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> get caught by a previous Pegusus Knight nor the Duke himself, then it was likely that they are smart enough to be gone by now. Out of town likely. Maybe even slipped through the country’s lines. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fiora was poisoned - poisoned </span>
  <em>
    <span>purposely</span>
  </em>
  <span> - by </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone - </span>
  </em>
  <span>and they may never know who.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eliwood is proud of his son; he may not say it aloud enough, he may not write it in his letters often, but does feel a swelling of pride in his chest at all that his son has accomplished. He knows, in his heart, that Fiora would be proud of him. She would tell him to stand tall, to stand his ground, and to never be afraid to get stronger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should have told Roy more often, Eliwood muses with clouded eyes and a cough. His chest constricts with each breath and his body feels so tired. It’s hard for him to do much anymore, with regret he finds himself lingering in bed too long. On the good days, he wanders over to the windows just to see the rolling hills in the distance and remember his family.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should have written more letters - his hands ache and shake, but he has already tried to write, but he should have pushed himself to write more. Maybe get one of the servants to help him now that he’s holed up in the castle on his deathbed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should have requested his presence more often. Told him more stories about his mother until there was nothing else to tell. He has joked with his son about being in the castle </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fiora’s passing because she would have never gone in during her life. That she was a free spirit - only bound to whomever is lucky enough to gain her loyalty. She was a fighter - the best one, the strongest one. She had been the one to finally find their home in the country and he had never argued with her, finding it such a perfect place to raise Roy. She had loved it there - she would have hated it should Eliwood had ever brought her to live within cold, stone walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But there are some things that he still holds close to his chest. Some things he could never tell his son - about him, about his mother. But it is better off this way - with Roy dreaming about his mother’s fire and strength with no memories or fantasies about her weakness, no stories about her tired, hooded yes and soft, sleepy smiles with sunken cheeks as she drifted off. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is starting to get an idea of what that must have been like for Fiora - laying there, knowing that you’ve done all that you can do and that at some point, you simply just can’t do anything more. He knows that it hurt her - that her body seemed to be betraying her - and he has no right to compare the pain he feels now to what she could have felt, but he hopes that she died peacefully. With acceptance. Grace. Love.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every time he closes his eyes, he can see her - beautiful eyes shining as bright as the blade in her hands. He hears her voice sometimes, softly in the night winds that drift in through the castle windows. On the days he feels his worst, he swears that he feels her, standing there, holding his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hopes that wherever he may be going after he passes, that at the very least, he may be able to see her there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has been awhile since Roy has been home - to his kingdom. He’s been off - adventuring, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hero-ing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Becoming the type of legendary hero that his father would want him to be, the type his mom could be proud of him for. He wanted to make them proud as much as he wanted to protect and better his kingdom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it has been even longer since he’s had the pleasure of seeing his father. He always tried to make the time to visit him, but sometimes things just never quite worked according to plan. Meetings would come up - fights among representatives or politicians. Still, he treasured each moment he was able to spend with his father. He relishes in his father’s advice, his praise. His stories about his own battles, most with his mother by his side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But truth be told, each visit he had with the duke made it harder to come back. It got harder to see him deteriorate away, get older. As the years had gone by and as more time passed in between their visits, the hair turned whiter, the wrinkles got more prominent. Age becomes more apparent as does the fact that no one lasts forever, no matter how much we want them to. A part of him always worries that every time he visits his father, he’s just one day closer to going back to Mother.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, however, he glances toward the letter that is crumbled in his hands as he starts toward the castle. Now, it seems like this may just be their last visit after all. Word had reached him about his father’s deteriorating condition, that he’s starting to whisk away. That he may not even have that much longer left.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hurts in ways that he didn’t expect. Even as his partner stands beside him, comforting him to the best of their ability, as they guide him through the castle with soft reminders. But the moment he reaches his father’s chamber door, has the courage to finally open it, his heart gets ripped out of his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood lays on the bed, eyes closed. His skin is paler, almost translucent, and looks frail. He looks small - different. Like something as simple as the breeze from his window could blow him away into ash. His hair is limp and so white that it is hard to see the faint traces of its red tones and roots. Nothing like the tapestries or the man from the stories, but it is him all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The soft, shaking rise and fall of his chest is the only sign of life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dad,” Roy’s voice is soft, almost scared to speak any louder, but after a nudge of confidence from his partner, he continues. “Dad. It’s Roy, we’re - uh, we’re here to see you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes a few moments of prodding, of soft whispers and careful shakes before Eliwood stirs, groaning as he sits up slowly on the bed. Roy gives him space during the series of coughing fits that follows before Eliwood catches his breath and looks toward his son. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood’s grin is contagious as Roy relaxes and takes a spot on an empty section of the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roy,” Eliwood’s joy seeps into his voice, “I’m happy to see you, my son.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gives a subtle nod to Roy’s partner with a grin, a sign that he’s just as happy to see them as well and the gesture is returned as they take a step back, giving the two the space and privacy that they need. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard some things, father,” Roy starts slowly as his hand finds a place on his father’s back, “Things about your health and - it was not good news.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eliwood grimances, flinching at the words and brutal honesty, but he doesn’t deny the claims either causing Roy to sigh as a weight pushes further on his chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad,</span>
  </em>
  <span> we have to talk about this,” Roy insists, but Eliwood’s brows furrow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No,</span>
  </em>
  <span> we don’t. We both know what’s happening, Roy. I’m getting older. Too old. I’m sorry that you have to see me this way, son. No one should have to see their loved ones like this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Like you saw Mom,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Roy’s eyes glisten as he swallows the hard lump in his throat. Eliwood coughs and after a few moments, he continues.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t want you to see me like this, but now that you’re here… I - </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> for coming, Roy. It - it was good to see you, my son, and I hope that you know how proud I am of you. How proud your mom would be too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Roy mumbles his answer, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know dad.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It seems like time stops around them. They sit there together on the bed for eternity in a comfortable silence of understanding and peace, as they both come to the understanding and acceptance that there will never be a chance for them to visit again. Not for a very long time.</span>
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